


pictured: brutus at golgotha

by Anonymous



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Canonical Temporary Character Death, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, References to Shakespeare, Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Suicidal Thoughts, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, Trauma, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Touch me and see;Jesus said,a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.There is a special agony in betraying a friend, one that Tubbo has come to know quite intimately in his tenure as the President.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93
Collections: Anonymous





	pictured: brutus at golgotha

There’s a lot for a president to do in a country that has just been razed to the earth, as Tubbo is quick to learn in the early days of his tenure as president of L’Manburg. Even something as simple as rebuilding everyone’s homes has paperwork involved, layers of planning from where the houses are going to go all the way to acquisition and distribution of materials. There are forms to be filled out for every measure that he takes, long, unwieldy things that make his head spin as he tries to keep the words straight in his head.

Tubbo sits at his desk, skin icy under his suit. He feels how his eyes sting, how he trembles slightly, posture straight like a president’s should be. The words swim on the page, and he knows he still has more to write. Once he's done, he can rest, lay himself down to sleep once the pages before him are filled out. It feels to him more a mountain than a molehill, daunting and unclimbable as he shivers gently. His mind wanders easily from his task.

There’s a bottle of whiskey, good shit, if the label is anything to go by, sitting half-empty in the bottom-left drawer of the president’s desk. It would be so easy to pour himself a glass, to drink until all of his cares slipped away like water, leaving him feeling empty and untethered. 

He doesn’t drink. 

Tubbo remembers what Schlatt was like, his dependence. It had gotten worse, Tubbo recalled, as the stress of the presidency had weighed on the man. He’d drank more, drank for longer. He wasn’t a mean drunk, not usually, but Tubbo almost preferred his fits of drunken passion to when Tubbo had to gently ease the bottle from the older man’s limp fingers, Schlatt slumped over his desk, eyes glossy and unseeing. He’d barely speak, and when he did, it was slurred and mostly incoherent.

Once, however, he’d locked his fingers around Tubbo’s wrist, fingers fever-hot against Tubbo’s skin. He’d looked Tubbo in the eye then, eyes startlingly clear as he spoke.

He’d made Tubbo promise that night, promise that he wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t do what Schlatt did and destroy himself, and in that moment, Tubbo had said yes. Tubbo had sworn to the pathetic, drunken husk of a man once-great and watched the urgency and passion drain from him as he fell back into his stupor, a short burst of life in an otherwise listless sea.

Tubbo half regrets his promise now, with nothing to dull the stinging pain, to blur his memories into a blissful nothingness as he replayed the memories of an idealized past over and over again. He runs his fingers over the cool glass, unscrews the bottle, but he never drinks it. Never pours himself a glass.

Of course, there’s always the contents of the other drawer, on the bottom right side of the desk. It’s a comfort most nights, knowing that they’re there, that once he’s done with everything, once his long work is done and over, every tie cut for a nation that’s bled him dry. It’s taken every last shred of passion he has to give, and he can feel it in the way he sways when he stands for too long, the constant tremble in his hands that he hides folded behind his back, how his energy drains when he closes his eyes, nodding off standing up. His heart pounds too heard, the space under his ribs so empty it feels like it’s echoing.

The stack of paper next to his desk, unfinished work and requested permits seems to get taller every day. It makes him want to just give up, seeing all the shit he has to do. At this rate, it’s easier just to give up, let it pile on and wait for people to get angry. Maybe if he doesn’t do it, maybe if there’s a tangible example of how much he’s struggling, someone will notice, someone will ask if maybe, just maybe he needs help, needs a break. Maybe instead of getting angry they’ll ask him why, what’s wrong.

In the right-hand drawer sit two glass bottles. Not alcohol, no, but potions, an awful berry red-purple color that glitters with an enchanted light. 

Netherwart, spider eyes. 

Sugar, mushrooms, glowstone.

Tubbo knows just how easy it would be. Everyone is used to him working late, used to seeing the glow of torchlight through the cracks in the shuttered windows of his office in the small hours of the morning, if they’re even awake at that time. No one would think to check, no one would find him until it was far too late to stop him. He’d finish the job quickly. 

He wonders how long it would take for them to realize he’s dead. 

Of course, he’s not going to do it, probably, not yet at least. There’s too much work to be done, too many people relying on him to be strong, to be the president. When his time comes, it’ll be once the new election occurs, once it’s someone else’s job to sit at his desk and make sure that nothing goes wrong, that Dream and Technoblade and god knows who else leaves L’Manburg alone, someone else’s job to sign permits and licenses and god knows what else.

He thinks that there’s probably enough people who give a shit about him that he’d have a funeral and a grave, but after what happened at Schlatt’s? Tubbo thinks he’d rather not, he’d rather be left to rot in an unmarked hole like Wilbur, remembered but not commemorated, not given a monument to be turned into a gender-neutral bathroom. He’d rather his corpse be ripped apart by vultures than the people he dedicated himself to, rather be devoured by bugs and worms than sold for parts in Targay. 

He’d enjoyed that day, funnily enough, swept up in Tommy’s antics, dual-wielding Schlatt’s bones, giving a speech he really didn’t think too hard about. It wasn’t that Tubbo hated Schlatt, not entirely, but it was easier to forget that the man hadn’t always been as bad as he got, that there were good times. There were times when Schlatt would sit down with Tubbo, taking the time to explain his work, helping him understand the complex forms and the elaborate web of bureaucracy that made up the government of L’Manburg. Schlatt would ruffle his hair as he left, his own work lying neglected on his desk in favor of aiding his young Secretary of State.

Sometimes, Schlatt would let him home early, tell him that he’s earned a day off to go take some time for himself. That it’s Schlatt’s job to work himself to death, not Tubbo’s. Tubbo always cherished those days, days he had the time to make the trek to Pogtopia before the sun began to set over the horizon, plenty of daylight hours left to spend gallivanting about the ravine and the surrounding forests with Tommy, carefree and far away from the stresses of life.

It hurts him to think about, those bright memories burning hot and painful in the absence of Tommy. He doesn’t-- he can’t think about it, not now, not when there’s so much work to be done. It’s just easier to think about the numbers on the page before him, how to allocate the funds to hold a funeral for Tommy. Tubbo’s not sure what Tommy would have wanted, a big funeral, with everyone there to mourn him, or something small, personal, genuine. Tubbo wants to respect his wishes, but he doesn’t know what those wishes are. He never got a proper chance to talk to Tommy before— before—

 _I have sinned,_ Judas spoke to the Pharisees, _for I have betrayed innocent blood._

Tubbo sighs sharply, and sets down his pen, rubbing the heels of his palms into his burning eyes, ignoring the tightness in his chest. It’s getting early, and he needs at least a few hours of sleep tonight. Tomorrow, there’ll be more work to be done. There always is.

* * *

_Monster_ , the voice calls him, and for the first time, the voice that whispers in his head is Tommy’s. It rings through his thoughts, and he barely registers as he stumbles back into his office, slamming the door shut behind him with a resounding bang. The shaking of his hands makes it far too hard to lock the door, and he spends a minute fumbling with the deadbolt, the blurring of his eyes, hot with tears, not helping him in any capacity. He stumbles to his desk, sitting heavily down in the too-big chair, made for grown men with long limbs that Tubbo does not have. His brain churns, the events of the day spinning in his head as he tries his best not to weep.

 _Speak to me what thou art,_ Brutus said, the long-dead ghost of his friend before him.

Tommy was alive. Tommy was alive and well and working with the man who had torn Tubbo apart with a firework, point blank. Tommy had taken a hostage, a man not involved in the conflict, not even part of L’Manburg, tortured him just to gain back the weapons that had been previously used to destroy his home and the people that lived there. 

Tubbo’s hands had not shook as he handed over the rocket launcher, that weapon that he had stared down, told that he would not be slain. It took two shots to kill him. Most people didn’t remember that, didn’t want to think of it. But Tubbo did, Tubbo knew just how false Technoblade’s promise of painlessness had been as he was slammed against the back of the chair they had trapped him against by the first blow. His whole body had _burned,_ both from the scorching heat of the explosion and from the way his bones had shattered under his skin with the force of impact. Tubbo had lain broken against the back of his improvised executioner’s block, and god in that moment, he would have begged Technoblade for death if he’d been in any state to speak. But he could not force himself to form words through the pain as tears rolled down his scorched cheeks, and Techno was loading the weapon again already, a merciful angel of death to free him from this mortal coil. 

Dying felt like absolution.

He had awoken once more, aching bones and skin all afire, but whole, skin painted with scars in starburst patterns, raised and pink, sensitive to the touch. They were smaller than Tubbo expected, where they burst across his chest and neck and the sides of his arms and hands, ropy burns circling his fingers. Even healed, the scars hurt almost constantly. They make Tubbo’s fingers stiff and painful, his writing shaky as he works through the ache. He can’t work, can’t think, flexes his joints, feeling the tight flesh stretch.

Tubbo tries so hard to do what is right for L’Manburg, what will keep his people safe, their homes and lives undisturbed. Is Tubbo a monster for that? Is he a monster for agreeing with the people he is supposed to trust, his cabinet? Is he a monster for trying to kill the man who destroyed their home the first time? Was he to believe that Technoblade had changed his ways, that Technoblade, Blood God’s Champion, would truly lay down the sword and leave them be in peace? They had not listened to him, the first time, hadn’t understood the seriousness of his hatred for government, any government, be it Schlatt or Tubbo, one in the same. They did not want to make that mistake again, give him time to recuperate and recover and attack a second time. 

Seeing Tommy, alive and standing tall next to Technoblade kills him more than the rockets ever did. It is a pain more profound, more deep than shattered limbs, a broken shell of a body begging for release, to see the hatred burning in Tommy’s eyes as Tubbo feels tears pooling in his. He wants to run to Tommy, pull him into his arms and feel his best friend alive and well in his embrace, to know that he is real and that this is not just a figment of Tubbo’s desperate imagination. It would be so easy for Tubbo to fall to his knees, to tell Tommy he can stay, please, stay, overturn the exile and be together again, sitting on the bench as the 3/4 waltz of Mellohi plays. It would be peaceful, the kind of peace that Tubbo thinks he has all but forgotten how to find, his only hope of such free rest bottled and stopped. Except that Tommy is snarling at him, there is a life on the line, and Tubbo knows that it is his job to be President now. He is still president even dressed in an ugly Christmas jumper. This is his gift, the angry spectre of a friend thought dead, stood before him. Tommy calls him a monster, and Tubbo thinks that coming from him, he knows it’s true.

 _Thy evil spirit, Brutus,_ Caesar replied, at the eve of his friend’s demise.

The potions sit in front of him, the door to his office is locked. Tubbo has never been closer to finally going through with it, forgetting all his responsibilities and finally fucking doing something for himself for once. He knows, he knows just how easy it would be to touch it to his lips, to drink it all down, to sink into eternal sleep without ceremony or regard.

“Cheers to me,” Tubbo mumbles, a quiet toast as he opens a bottle and pours into one of Schlatt’s fancy-looking glass cups. His nose wrinkles at the taste as he swallows it down. It felt like fire as it went down, yet there’s a sense of satisfaction. Guilt too, and as he pours himself a second glass of the golden-yellow alcohol, he sighs.

He’d have to apologize to Schlatt, if he ever saw the man again. He'd promised he wouldn't drink.

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up a lot more referential than originally intended? it was originally supposed to be a look at the weight of presidency with a semi-healthy dose of projection because i have a ton of work on my plate right now and i'm stressed about it, but as i wrote my brain made parallels to judas and brutus, and i like making allusions, so i just kinda went whole hog with the references to luke/matthew and shakespeare's julius caesar. greek mythology who all i know is roman history and bibble


End file.
